


Emotional Mistake

by undernightlight



Series: [Patrick+Mackenzie] euphoria [2]
Category: Undrafted (2016)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Patrick is an emotional boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 03:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17418599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undernightlight/pseuds/undernightlight
Summary: Mackenzie goes to Patrick's aid after a particularly bad game of baseball.[pre-film]





	Emotional Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly love writing Undrafted stuff so much, like, it's honestly just really fun to run with Murray as a character and she what I can play around with.
> 
> So please, enjoy! :)

Mackenzie felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She pulled it out as discreetly as possible so her lecturer wouldn’t see, not that she assumed he’d care all that much, to check what it was. It was a text from Patrick’s dad. She swiped to read the full message.

_Hey, it’s Brian. I know you’re in class right now but can you ring me when you’re finished please. Thanks._

She’d told him before he doesn’t need to start each text chain with tell her who it is, she had his number stored, but if had been more than a month since he’d last needed to directly get a hold of her, he’d always let her know it was him anyway. He didn’t text her much, if anything, he called.

Class was scheduled for another forty minutes but the lecturer usually let them out at least ten minutes early, usually closer to twenty. So when they finished twenty six minutes early, she was very grateful, and quickly threw her belongings into her backpack and rushing out the lecture hall. She made sure she was out of the way of any passing students and rang him back.

_“Hi Mackenzie, glad you got back to me so fast.”_ He sounded quite relieved. There were muffled sounds in the background with she couldn’t identify. _“Hang on a sec,”_ he added. The background noise got quieter.

“Yeah, no worries, what’s wrong?” There was clearly something wrong.

_“It’s Patrick. We had a game today and it didn’t go well at all, one of the worse games on our part I’ve witnessed. He’s taking it really hard.”_

So the sounds in the background were Patrick. Mackenzie knew he wasn’t always...emotionally stable, and when it came to baseball he was ten times worse, and if the defeat was bad, it worse again. “I’ll be round soon.” She started for the car, weaving her way in and out of streams of people.

_“Thank you. I didn’t know what else to do, he’s normally calmed down by now.”_

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you soon.”

The call ended, and Mackenzie practically jogged to her car. She was a safe driver, but when it came to Patrick, she could be a little reckless; she didn’t do anything illegal though so it was okay. Her heart was beating too fast. Normally he would’ve calmed down by now, and if he hadn’t, hadn’t gone on his run or for a breather, and he was still as angry and frustrated as he was right after the match ended, then that was bad. She hoped he was alright.

She got there quickly, as she promised and parked opposite. She left her back on the front seat and quickly hopped from the car and across the road. Ringing the doorbell, she waited patiently, her leg bouncing, for only a few seconds before the door was opened by Brian.

“Mackenzie, thanks for getting here so fast,” he said.

“Yeah, of course. He upstairs?” There was a loud thud which answered her question.

“His room, yeah. He’s a bit…”

Brian didn’t want to speak bad of his son of course. Mackenzie finished the sentence. “Volatile.” He nodded almost reluctantly. “I’ll see if I can help him out.” She jogged up the stairs, Brian calling a thank you after her. Patrick’s bedroom door was shut as she assumed it would be. As she approach, what were once just unidentifiable sounds became clearer, his shouting and screaming and objects being hurtled against the walls. She took a deep breath in and out before knocking.

“Patrick,” she called out. “It’s me.” There was no response. “Can I come in?” Still nothing, but the shouting had stopped so she took that as a good sign. “I’m coming in.” She turned the handle and pushed the door open slowly, peering her head round the wood first before fully entering.

He was still in his baseball kit, stained with orange dirt and grass and sweat. There were still smudges of black paint across his cheeks, now faded and patchy. Patrick was stood in the middle of his room, chest heaving and jaw clenched tight. His hair was a mess, tousled through chaos. She surveyed his room. His desk chair had been pushed across the room, tucked between his wardrobe and the end of his bed. What was most likely once on his desk were on the floor, scattered, but a few things remained at the side. His bed was a mess, the duvet and sheets all pulled up towards the pillowed. There were clothes everywhere too. His bedside table had been knocked considerably, his digital clock hanging off the side, kept off the floor by its own cord. The picture of the team he kept on his wall had been pulled off and she spotted a frame face down on the floor.

“Patrick?” She said. He hadn’t been looking at her until then, his head suddenly whipping around to see her. His eyes were dark and clouded over by emotion. She stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind her.

“What are you doing here?” She knew he had nothing against her, that the venom in his voice was not directed at her, was just his anger from the game coming out, but it still stung a little.

“Your dad called, he-”

“Of course he did. Couldn’t have me fucking up the house, could he?!” His voice was louder than it needed to be.

“He’s just worried about you.”

“Why can’t everybody just leave me alone?” He was shouting, angry and frustrated, and he took the out on his wall, punching it multiple time. Mackenzie rushed to him, calling his name to pull his attention back to her, but it wasn’t working. Only when she physically took a hold of him did he stop, whipping around again, forcing her to stumble back a bit. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

She’d tried to keep her voice quite, calming, warm, but that wasn’t getting through. She couldn’t call raising her voice back a strategy because she didn’t plan on it, it just happened. “Because,” she began, “you’re hurting yourself. Look!” She motioned to his hand but he didn’t look. “You’re bleeding!” He still didn’t look. “I want to help you Patrick and that means you can’t be alone. You need somebody.”

“I need to be left alone!”

“No!” Her voice wobbled, cracked. “Alone brings you to this, this rage that you can’t control. Let me help you.”

“I don’t need help!”

He wasn’t thinking when he did what he did next. He was pissed at the world, he was angry and frustrated and tired and ready to explode. He spun, picking up the first object his hand met with, and launched it. He did it all the time, just just wasn’t used to somebody else being in the room. He didn’t hit her, but it was too close to her head. Patrick watched as she stepped back, away from him, her eyes following the object as it hit the floor. His eyes followed it too; the stapler. He hadn’t even given enough attention to what he grabbed before he threw it. It wasn’t even at her, he didn’t want to hurt her, he just needed to get the energy out.

“Mackenzie, I-” But he stopped. He’d taken a step forward, towards her, ready to apologise, and she flinched, backed away from him. He noticed then her chest was rising and falling quickly, her eyes big. She was...scared...of him? He’d never made such a big mistake in his life, and it felt all that weight all at once.

“Mackenzie, I’m sorry.” He didn’t move. His voice, once loud and aggressive, was now quiet and weak. “I never...I didn’t…” But he couldn’t find anyway to justify what he did. He started to shake ever slightly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m-” he managed before he throat started to feel like it was closing up. His legs felt weak and he fell forward. He expected hard contact with his floor, but it didn’t happen. Mackenzie had managed to catch him before his knees could even hit; he wasn’t sure how she knew he was going to fall, but she did.

“It’s okay,” she said. Her voice was so quiet and soft but slightly broken and he was sure it was his fault. She couldn’t support his full weight and then gentle sank to the floor together. Patrick started to cry and it quickly turned into full sobs. Mackenzie, kneeling, scooped him into her wrapping his arms around his body and pulling him into her, the side of his head against her shoulder and chest. His fingers managed to clutch around the fabric of her t-shirt.

He spoke through broken sobs, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” over and over again, unable to express the regret he felt. He could’ve hurt her, and he never wanted that. Each word came out weak and vulnerable and starved of air but he couldn’t stop. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He wanted to take it back, what he did, but he couldn’t. Every once in awhile he’d stop speaking, only because he’d ran out of oxygen. He’d take a deep breath and continue. Mackenzie couldn’t stop him, not when he was a mess like this; he had to get it out of his system. So she held him, her lips pressed into his hair. Seeing him broken like this broke her. She just wanted to help, so she held him, rocking every slightly hoping to calm him.

He didn’t stop. Her knees and back were hurting. When he strangled sobs had practically stopped and he was no longer apologising, she adjusted them to both be laying on their sides on the floor facing each other. His face was red and puffy and there were still tears on his face. She reached out a hand and placed it on his cheek, using her thumb to wipe away tears. He opened his mouth to speak but the hesitation he held stopped him, and she responded leaning in quickly and kissing him. There was no doubt he kissed back, desperate and scared and needy all wrapped up. He wanted to cling to her, afraid to let go. When she pulled away, he was reluctant, but she stayed close, their faces inches apart. Her hand slipped away from his face and to the back if his neck, and her fingers carded their way though the hair at the nape of his neck. She scanned his face. It held sadness. She offered him a smile, which he attempted to return.

He was the first to speak after what felt life forever. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she said, a small nod as best she could against the carpet. “I mean, please don’t do it again.” The lightness in her tone pulled a small chuckle from him, “But it’s okay, I forgive you.” He attempted a nod too, but much like hers, the fiction of the carpet made the action seem unnatural. “I have a plan,” she continued.

“Yeah?” He was glad somebody did.

“You’re going to take a shower, and then you’re going to get some sleep, you’re exhausted.” He was, there was no doubt, not only smelly but tired.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Despite that, neither of them moved for a while. He brought a hand to her face and smiled when she didn’t flinch away, but instead turning into his touch. He looked at her so lovingly, wondering what he ever did to deserve someone as amazing as her. He kissed her, slipping his hand to her neck and pulling her into him, and it was softer now, delicate. Their arms got in the way of each other but they didn’t really care.

Eventually, after they pulled away, Mackenzie forced him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and steadied himself on his desk. She rummaged through his wardrobes and pulled out clean clothes for him, cuffed sweats and a t-shirt as well as fluffy socks and boxers, and pushed them into his arms. “You need a long shower, alright?” And he nodded. “Take you time,” and she smiled at him. He shuffled out the room and to the bathroom.

She took a deep breath in and out, then looked across his room. It was a mess. She set about picking stuff up, moving the chair out of the way and back to where it should be. Pens and pencils were put in draws out of the way, books picked up and put either on the shelf or the edge of his desk. Clothes were folded or hung up. She put the stapler away at the back of his desk draw. Her attention fell on the picture on the floor, assuming it to be the team photo, and she picked it up. It was the team photo, the glass in the frame now cracked, shattered. To be safe, she headed downstairs to dispose of the glass and frame in the bin, saving the picture of course.

When she entered the kitchen, Brian was watching plates at the sink. He smiled at her. “Everything go okay? It’s been quiet for a while.”

“Yeah, it’s okay now. He broke the frame though,” she said, holding it up in her hands, “but I think he’s okay, or he will be at least. He’s in the shower now.” She carefully removed the back from the frame and took the picture out, before dumping the rest into the bin.

“Do you think he’ll be alright for the night?” Brian asked.

“I’d assume so, why?”

“Me and Kimberly where planning on visiting some old friends today and we were staying the night out of town. I was debating calling saying we couldn’t make it.”

“No, he’ll be fine. I’ll stay anyway to be sure, so go.”

“We don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“You’re not. You two go have a nice time, it’s fine.” Brian smiled and nodded, accepting her answer.

“Any plans then?” He followed up.

“Well, he’s in the shower now, and then I’ll get him to sleep. He’s exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally, so hopefully a rest will do him some good.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted then.” He places a plate in the rack to dry when he spoke, a comfortable lightness in his tone.

“As best I can.”

She smiled back before heading back upstairs to Patrick’s. The shower was still going which was was glad about. She held the photo in her hands longer than she needed to, looking over each face. The one she recognised most, besides Patrick, was John, or Maz as he also went by. She’d never met him, or any of the team, but Patrick spoke about him in such high regard, and spoke about him often when it came to baseball; he had actually pointed out everyone in the team in the picture, but she forgot some of them. She set the photo on his desk, her finger lingering over Patrick’s face, before going to make his bed.

It was while she was doing this that he returned. He’d already put his clothes in the laundry hamper, but his clean t-shirt was in his hand instead of on his body, and the towel was draped on his head. He was rather surprised to come in to a clean bedroom.

Mackenzie smiled and walked over to him, stretching up and kissing his cheek. “You look better,” she said.

“You didn’t have to tidy up,” he responded.

“I know, but it’s no fun sleeping in a messy room.”

He smiled at her kindness, “Thank you.” She wrapped her arms around his bare torso and smiled up at him. They kissed again, and he pulled the towel away and letting it drop to the floor with his shirt as he held onto her waist. The kiss lasted longer than either of them had intended it to.

“Sleep now,” she said as she pulled away. As she took a hand of his hand to drag him to his bed, he flinched and hissed. She turned back and looked at his hand, her grip across his busted knuckles. “Shit, sorry,” she said, letting go, “Do you have anything to sort this with?”

“It’s fine really.”

“Do you have anything to sort this with?” She said again, not budging on her stance. He seemed to realise that, and sighed.

“The cupboard under the sink.”

He seemed reluctant to tell her, but she was grateful. On her way out, she kissed his cheek, “I’ll be back in just a minute.” Patrick stood there awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking over how tidy it was – it was tidier than it had been before he’d wrecked it – and he couldn’t help but feel even more guilty than he already did. She was too good for him. His eyes could the picture on the desk, and he walked over to pick it up. He’d ripped the picture off the wall, threw it to the floor and stomped on in. He was sure the frame smashed, and by its absence, he guessed he was right. He threw it down because he was done with baseball, but he said that every time they lost, every time he humiliated himself and felt like shit, yet he always went back to it. He probably still would after this.

She returned quicker than he thought she would with a small first-aid kit in her hand. He put the picture back on the desk as she led him to sit on the bed. He turned in to face her while she pulled her legs up and sat cross-legged. “I found this, and it’s got everything it seems.” She used a lightness in her tone to try and ease any discomfort he was feelings, physically or emotionally. She pulled out an antiseptic cream and a bandage that would plenty of times around his hand.

“Is that necessary?” He said to the bandage.

“Well, I can’t exactly use seven plasters all over you hand.” He chuckled a little a her response. It was the knuckles that connected his fingers to the rest of his hand that were busted, mainly his middle and index finger. His ring finger had gotten off lightly and his pinky was barely damaged at all. She carefully took his hand and placed it on her knee while she opened the tube. “This is might sting a-”

“Aaa,” he called out and she halting, “Stings, yep.” His lips were pressed into a thin smile.

“I’ll be as careful as I can but we’re not risking an infection.”

“We?”

“Yes we.”

He smiled warmly at her. She was gentle, taking his hand in her while she worked. He flinched occasionally, or hissed, but he tried his best to keep still; for someone who punched a wall, he had a rather low pain tolerance when not high on adrenaline. When she was done with the antiseptic, she placed the large cotton pad over his knuckles and began wrapping the bandage around them, running it down his hand a wrist to keep it secure and in place. She tied both ends together and tucked the loose ends back in.

“There,” she said, bringing his bandaged hand to her lips and pressing a gentle kiss to his covered knuckles. He smiled warmly before slipping his hand free and bringing it to her cheek. Like before, she leaning into his touch and he couldn’t help but feel the luckiest guy in the world.

After some time, she spoke. “Okay, now sleep.”

“Are you staying?”

“If you want.”

“I want you to.”

“Then I will.” She smiled and stood from the bed, wandering and picking up the clean t-shirt that had been left on the floor. She pulled off her sweatshirt, replacing it with the t-shirt, and then kicking off her shoes and taking off her jeans. She was only getting comfy, but he couldn’t help but admire her from his spot on the bed. She playfully smacked his arm while he was so obviously watching her change. “Let’s sleep then.” Both eagerly slipped into the freshly made bed, both smiling as they cuddled up together.

“Thank you,” he said after a while, and she had to adjust herself to look at him from her position laying on his chest.

“What for?”

“For being everything I’ve ever needed.” His smile was so perfect to her, and she stretched up to give him a quick kiss.

“It’s my pleasure,” she replied, “Now get some sleep. We have the house to ourselves tonight too, so I need you well rested.” A finger trailed up the small creases on his abdomen that vague resembled muscle definition. He gave a light chuckled, knowing exactly what she meant.

“Fine by me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to state this in general: I don't condone violence, against a significant other or as a way to solve your problems, but that's kinda what happened in this but yeah, don't hurt people guys.
> 
> Also, it'd be nice to write something where Murray doesn't end up on the floor crying, but we'll see how that goes aha.


End file.
